Results may vary.
While I’m sure the title of this post probably falls under ‘Click Bait’ territory, it’s hardly a taboo subject anymore. Whether it’s our lips, our breasts, or our egos, we’re inflating left right and centre — and I’m all for it.
I’m 22 years old, lying in a single bed in a private room of a private hospital. I’ve just come round from the drugs that an anaesthetist not unlike the KFC man gave me and I’m a little woozy, but I notice a 3ft tall sheepdog teddy and my mum (in that order) by the window — their mouths grinning and their eyes looking anywhere but the two bricks on my chest. I’m not sure a giant teddy bear is the most common choice for a ‘Happy New Tits’ gesture, but I loved it all the same. I couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of her frantically running around the shops during my 90 minute operation, trying to source the perfect gift before picking, well, this. But how did I expect her to act? Boob jobs are a thing that other people get. Strangers. Not you, not someone in your family… right?
Wrong. I’m not here to preach about how we should let people do what they want with their own bodies (we should) or how, according to society, there are certain standards to live by (there aren’t), but I do have my top tips on things to think about before surgery, and what the hell comes next (is it too late to change this post title to ‘Top Ten Tips For Your Tits’?).
• First of all, there is NOTHING wrong with your boobs. They do not define you. You’re beautiful as you are. Blah blah blah. Great, now that we’ve got that out of the way…
• Ask yourself why you want to do it. If it’s for anyone else, we can’t be friends.
• Shop around! I had to sit through a surgeon using my chest as a doodle pad and another basically going to third base with me before finding the one I was most comfortable with.
• Make sure they hear you. Communicating exactly what you want is vital. This isn’t an ‘asking for a trim and leaving with a bob so you go home and cry for a few days’ situation. Post op, you won’t be stuffing tissues down your bra anymore, so it’s no tears allowed. Get it right the first time.
• Tell a friend, not Facebook. Unless you’re absolutely ready to open that can of worms, keep it on a need-to-know basis. The only opinions you need are the ones that matter.
• You’ll be shitting yourself on the way to the hospital/on the way to the operating theatre/as you’re told to count backwards from 10/right before you open your eyes and look down. Just, FYI.
• The implants do literally feel like bricks at first, but begin to take their shape about a week later (after the massive granny bra works its magic!).
• Don’t have sex. The likelihood of your partner getting far too excited and causing some sort of rupture is high. Give it about 7-10 days until everything feels a bit more secure, and, yours.
• Buy yourself some beautiful and ridiculously expensive underwear — because before you know it, you’ll be used to your new boobs and shoving them in any old sad Primark bra like before.
• They probably will move at some point. It’s gross, but it’s temporary. They usually slide back into place in their own time, which doesn’t make it OK… but hey man, it’s science.
Going back to uni/my job in a pub after seven days holiday pay felt… sneaky. No one knew, no one noticed a new air of confidence around me, no one (thank god) shoved a Corona crate to my chest. I was still just me. Four years on, we’re still going strong. It’s hard for me to see the impact my operation had on my life, because my mind has blocked a lot of the issues I had before it — but that’s a whole other post that I’ll get around to writing on the 12th of fuck no.
If done properly, cosmetic surgery offers us a brand new enjoyment of ourselves — how can we not be 100% behind that? There, I said it. Send in the trolls.
And yes — I do still have my giant sheepdog.